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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26255701">Someone You're Not</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlights_Inkwell/pseuds/Moonlights_Inkwell'>Moonlights_Inkwell</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Bard and Little Miss [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Fluff and Smut, Insecurity, Jaskier and the reader have feelings, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, i dunno man</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:35:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,944</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26255701</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlights_Inkwell/pseuds/Moonlights_Inkwell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You know so much about him, but really you know nothing. You don't even know his real name.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion &amp; Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Bard and Little Miss [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907491</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Someone You're Not</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For the amount of time you and the pretty bard spent together, you could safely say you knew very little about him. Well, very little might be an exaggeration. Jaskier is exceptionally open and spends so much time talking, and usually about himself, that it would be impossible to not pick up a thing or two. You know in all certainty that his favourite colour is periwinkle, that he spent a good few years studying in Oxenfurt Academy, and how immediately when you decide to stay in an inn or tavern he needs to have a bath with a very specific lavender oil.  You know the way he fingers the frets of his lute even when he doesn't play, just to have something to do with his hands, how he brightens up at even the most minute of praise and how his smile makes you swear he cannot be human because human men can't possibly be this beautiful. You know the feeling of his lips against yours and his hand on yours, but you really know nothing at all. No idea of where he grew up, if he has siblings. You don't even know his name. </p><p>It seems slightly sinister when I think of it like that, you consider as you swirl your tankard of ale, sat across from the centre of the tavern floor where he's singing for the clientele songs of Geralt's success in slaying a selkiemore not two hours before. The drunken celebration of the town people, clapping and shouting a familiar chorus of Toss A Coin To Your Witcher over Jaskier's new song, feels worlds apart from the comfortable quiet of the table you share with the white haired man- connected with these grinning locals but only through the bard's song and proximity. He's beaming, eyes glittering, and mouth turned up in the widest smile as he drinks up the praise and adulation. He looks like a child in front of a baker's shop and always does as he performs, your own lips turn up in an appreciative smile as you watch him bound around like an overly excited puppy, plucking the strings of his lute. After travelling together for... you don’t even know how long- time is almost an incomprehensible concept while traveling with the Witcher- and being in your relationship as of two winters ago, you don't even know what his given name is. Something about that strikes you as unfair. Stage Names are all well and good for Bards, needing something that can be cried out easily by an adoring audience like the one in front of you now but he’s more than just a bard to you. No matter where you go, he always charms anyone who listens to him sing. It makes sense. When you met him, working in a tiny tavern in a tiny town not far from Toussaint, you fell in love as soon as you heard him sing. Were anyone ever to ask about your first meeting you would have claimed that you felt his grip on your heart intensify when you saw him smile. Gave up on a job, friends, a life to blindly follow him in his travels with his Witcher friend, all for the sake of that smile, that voice, those eyes. Like a siren, he sang his song and into his hold came your heart. It sounds oh so very romantic- as Jaskier has said time and time again when trying to put the “tale of our love" to music- but it’s not quite true. His voice was beautiful, his eyes wild, his voice like a call to the wild, but that wasn’t what made you leave everything behind; you left because of how sweetly he spoke to you after his show, ignored the rest of the tavern to sit at the bar talking avidly to you until long after you should have closed, and how beautiful his personality was. It sounds far more romantic to say it was love at first sight, first song, than love at first conversation, love at first offer of freedom. </p><p>No matter the venue, you watch him pour his soul out into his performances and sustain himself on the praise it earns him, be it these little pubs or wedding banquets. He's like a fae or a puppy, the way he can just lap up positivity and turn it, alchemy like, into song and show. You assume the only person who hasn't fallen in love with the Bard's songs is the person he spends most of his time singing about. The Witcher is never impressed, preferring the quiet of his meditation over the hustle and bustle of a lively performance. You don't entirely blame him. Jaskier is a joy to watch performing, and his voice is like nothing you’ve known in your life; but you travel with him, and Geralt has travelled with him long before you entered their traveling party, it takes the wonder out of him sometimes, when reminded that the same man singing was only this morning composing an annoying little ditty about how Geralt smelled and needed to bathe and how you ought to smile more. Geralt makes a noise of annoyance at all the noise, and you attempt to hide your enjoyment by taking a deep gulp of your beer, only to gag and cringe at the taste. It’s disgusting. </p><p>Ale always tastes vile, always has and always will. In your younger years you drank it with friends without complaint so as not to be laughed at, though your male friends had always laughed anyway. Having worked in a tavern meant that it was the convenient to drink and serve during the busiest working hours, in spite of how disgusting it is to you. Even now, you find yourself drinking it to keep up an appearance of stoicism to impress Geralt, determined not to have him believe you delicate and useless in contracts, but even now you couldn’t make yourself like it, or even find it tolerable. If your white-haired companion notices the way your face scrunches up after taking a swig, he says nothing. In your disgust at your drink, you hadn't noticed that the songs have ended and the crowd quieted down, until you feel the press of lips against the curvature of your neck and your bard settling himself beside you, which only serves to draw a shocked squeak from you. He smiles at you with a playful wink, resting his lute on the table,  </p><p>“Well, what did the two of you think of my triumphant performance?” He asks proudly, which results in a noncommittal grunt from Geralt. He’s never been much of a conversationalist, and never has much time for the songs either, so you find yourself filling in the silence with your own enthusiastic praise.  </p><p>“It was fantastic. You know it was fantastic, Jask.” You coo to him, resting your cheek on his shoulder and watching his chest puff up with pride. “Especially seeing as you only wrote it today.” In return for the compliment, the Bard presses a kiss into your hair. You pull back and smile proudly, resting a hand on his thigh as you take another swig of the beer. The look on your face must have been undeniable as you find Jaskier gently prying it from your hand after noticing your grimace, </p><p>“Gods, Dear Heart. Don't dare drink that, it tastes of piss.” He says playfully, leaning in close to gently wipe the ale that had sloshed over your bottom lip in the sudden movement. Dear Heart. As much as you've never been one to use aliases or fake names, Jaskier uses pet names so often they might as well be your true name.  </p><p>Dear Heart, Dove, Love, My Breath, Darling Muse, My Moon and Stars; you lose track of the number of sweet names he uses for you. They’re always romantic and lyrical, the kind of terms that would sound stilted coming from anyone but him. He says them like they’re meaningful, and had taken time to construct, even more so than the time it took your parents to name you. At first you had worried that he used them because he's forgotten your name, but you know that it’s just his way. He pairs them with sweet kisses to the back of your hand, or a hand at your hip, using your true name only when annoyed or worried. He likes titles. He still calls Geralt by every pseudonym he can think of much to the ire of the other man.  </p><p>“If it gets me drunk then it's fine.” You reply quickly, cheeks flushed at the feeling of his calloused thumb against the sensitive skin of your mouth, trying not to breathe in deeply and to fight off the urge to brush your tongue across the pad. No matter how many times he touches you, however chaste the contact is, you find yourself blushing like the first time. With a melodramatic gasp, the bard pulls back his thumb to stare at you like you had grown a second head.  </p><p>“You do understand you're supposed to enjoy what you’re drinking, not just what it does to you, right?” He says, as if he's the authority on drinking, his tone of voice telling you that there's nothing you can say to dissuade him.  “I’ll fetch you some of the wine I like. I can promise it tastes better than that.” And with that he smiles and pushes the thumb into his mouth, cringing as the beer touches his tongue. “Gods, I was right. You stay there, don’t touch that, I’ll be back.”  </p><p>Geralt rolls his eyes at Jaskier's proclamation and grunts for your attention before he gestures towards the door, got to his feet and walked off to bed. Despite what Jaskier's song would have the people believe, it had not been as easy a fight as either of you had anticipated. Geralt had been slammed into the river bank so many times you thought he would have broken a bone or more, and a rapid movement had seen you sent crashing into a tree and less than useless for an hour or two. He's had a spree of bad luck as of late. You almost feel bad that he has to see you and Jaskier interact with each other like this since his latest tryst with Yennifer ended as poorly as it ever does. The Witcher’s absence sees you return to your earlier thoughts about the Bard's name, or your lack of knowledge of his real name. It shouldn’t matter, and truly it doesn't matter to you, but as you watch him try and navigate his way through the crowd of people around the bar, you find yourself trying to think of what his real name could be. He's no Erik, and certainly you can’t imagine him as an Aleksander or Kacper, but you can't quite imagine a name for him but Jaskier. It suits him. Dandelion’s are bright, beautiful and misunderstood, and so is he. Were you honest with yourself, you have no idea why he's here with you. If his accent and clothes weren’t already loaded with coin and privilege, him saying things like ‘you should enjoy what you drink' just solidifies in your mind that he doesn't belong with you and Geralt. Enjoying what you drink means affording a drink that tastes so good it justifies paying for it, and you can barely justify paying for even ale when it gets you drunk. He's like a rare and beautiful songbird, sweet sounding and brightly coloured and strange to find lingering in places where they don’t belong, like with a Witcher and a girl with such little self-preservation that she'll fight monsters, such as yourself. The sight of Your Dandelion returning to the table with two jugs of wine removes every thought from your mind entirely.  </p><p>“Here, Dear Heart. You'll like the taste much more, I swear.” He says with a wide grin, still riding on the high of his triumphant performance, pockets full of coin and head filled with applause. He looks beautiful like this. The two jugs are placed in the space between your hands and his, surrounded on one side by his lute. He reaches out timidly and rests the tips of his fingers on your palm, which lets you slide your palm under his and squeeze it gently. You sip the wine without a second thought and he, in turn, takes a deep gulp. It tastes of tart cherries, cloves and how Jaskier's lips taste when he kisses you in the midnight hours, you find yourself smiling as you pull it away from your mouth, the deep red staining your mouth. He’s right. You do like the taste.  </p><p>“It’s beautiful.”  </p><p>“I told you as much, Dove. It’s delicious, the night is young, and we have coin. So drink.” </p><p>///////// </p><p> </p><p>Once the two of you have reached a delicious sort of drunkenness that can only come with the coins from a successful contract, performance, and spending them on more than five jugs of the sweetest tasting wine you have ever drank, you find yourself pressed against the door on the inside of the room you're sharing with your Dandelion. His lips, chapped but soft, are pressed against your own, tongue dipping into your mouth as if still seeking out any wine that might linger still, making your fingers curl into the blue satin of his doublet and your tongue to timidly lap at his. Nights like this, where you aren’t sleeping in the open or five feet away from Geralt and Roach, are rarer than you would like but the scarcity makes you treasure them more. They feel like a gift. Nights where the two of you can just take time with one another, not just steal quick moments of pleasure when you can be sure you're alone. You wouldn’t give up this life for anything on the continent but if you could sleep in a real building more often you would do it in a heartbeat, just for moments like this, where a knee slots between your own and his lips dart down from your own to the hollow of your throat, to suck bruises the colour of wine against your skin, drawing desperate sighs from kiss swollen lips. Your hips rut against his knee to try to relieve the pressure and wetness gathering between your legs, and a warm hand rests on your hip, guiding you to move quicker still.  </p><p>“You’re so beautiful.” Even in moments like this, he can’t keep himself from talking. At this point, it must be a universal constant: the sun will rise each morning, fish live in water, ale tastes disgusting, and Jaskier is still talking. Warm breath fans against your skin as he speaks, as much to himself as to you. “So beautiful like this, Dear Heart. Blooming. Like a flower. You are fucking beautiful.” His tone is reverent and makes your heart ache for him to take from you, anything and everything he needs. He makes you feel so much more than what you are, and in return you groan weakly and pull his head back by his hair to slam your lips into his once more. He mutters something against your mouth that sounds a little like your name, then pries you from the door and against his chest, knee still between your thighs, and begins to stumble blindly towards the bed. Fingers splay across your chest, somewhere between groping at your chest and trying to undo the lacing keeping it tied together, in return you push the doublet off of him and let it fall to the floor without a thought. It’s easy to forget how well built your bard is when he spends so much time around Geralt, but now with a hand pressed against firm muscle beneath a thick thatch of hair you’re reminded that he is so much more than someone pretty with a lute. The brunette pulls back from you with a heavy sigh which turns to a throaty chuckle as you chase after his mouth to continue the kiss. When your eyes finally open to see why he isn’t kissing you, you catch sight of blown out pupils, with only a thin ring of ocean blue surrounding it, roaming along your face and body hungrily.  </p><p>“Jask,” Your voice comes out a pathetic whine, which makes him chuckle once more, deft fingers tugging your chemise over your head only to then bunch it up and toss away from you, like prolonged contact would make it catch fire.  </p><p>“Yes, Dear Heart...” He replies quickly, voice husky and verging on a growl.  </p><p>“I want you...”  </p><p>“And you have me.” He cradles a hand against his chest for a second or two, before pulling you closer once more, turning and pushing you onto the bed. “And I have you. And will for as long as you’ll have me.” As long as you’ll have me. He says it every time you’re intimate, anything from him simply pressing his fingers inside of you to bedding each other, it's only as long as you’ll have him.  I'd have you till the day I die, you think to yourself as you land on the mattress, I’ll want you till the day I die.  </p><p>“Then have me.”  </p><p>The smirk he gives you is feral as he climbs over you, knees sinking into the blanket on either side of your hips, lips pressing into your neck once more then travelling downwards. Without your chemise to keep you warm, the blushed flesh of your nipples hardened in the cold air which hadn't gone unnoticed by your lover, who slides his hands to your chest once more to gently massage your mounds while mouthing down the valley between them and towards your trousers.  </p><p>“Oh, Muse, do not worry.” He says reassuringly, pulling his hands back from your skin to the fabric at your waist. “I’ll have you. And Gods, how you'll sing for me.”  </p><p>//////// </p><p>Like all nights that involve Jaskier, drinking, and privacy, you find yourself held down against the soft mattress; one of his hands cradling your cheek, while skilled fingers pump in-and-out of you at an almost agonisingly quick pace. Slick, wet, slapping sounds echo through the room, coupled with reassuring coos from him and your own gasps and sighs. The candle, dimly lit and resting on the table closest to the bed, gave out just enough light for you to stare adoringly up at him- cast in golden light like a god amongst men. He was right. Sing for him, you did, moaning loudly into his mouth as he kisses you sweetly. It's the bard in him, that sees him treat your body like an instrument to encourage noises from, your moans the tune and his sweet nothings the lyrics. Its the most beautiful song of his, you can't help but think, one that you would gladly sing every day for the rest of your lives, a song that’s lyrics consist of a call and response between the two of you,  </p><p>“Yes, Dear Heart. Sing for me, my girl.” Or “Sweet thing, you’re so bloody gorgeous.” Which is followed by your own faltering mutters of,  </p><p>“Jask... there. Oh. I'll...” and “Dandelion... please. Please.”  </p><p>The two fingers inside you curl and rub against that spot that makes your gasp grow louder still, a hand suddenly grasping his forearm tightly to anchor yourself once more.  Buried to the start of his signet ring, he grins, twists his fingers once and then pulls them out of you. Glistening digits are pulled up to his mouth and sucked on while he maintains eye contact with you, rocking backwards to rest on his knees. He's spent an hour with his mouth and fingers working your cunt to orgasm over, and over, and over again, yet the simple sight of him sucking your essence from his fingers is enough to make you flush, as if struck with the perversion of the situation all at once. Darkened eyes, framed by darker lashes rake down your body hungrily, such a hunger that any insecurity you might have felt about being so exposed is gone at once. </p><p>“You taste so sweet.” It makes you sound like a pie or tart to be spoken about like that, but you can’t help but be flattered. He says it every time he works you to completion on his tongue, and while you argued the first time or two, you've grown to believe him. Or so you say, just so you can avoid his emphatic lectures about your beauty and how he would kill or die for you to see yourself as he does. The wine has made you brave, though, letting you question him  </p><p>“I... I do?” There is an unmistakable quiver in your voice that turns Jaskier's grin wolfish. You'd almost be afraid of the look he gives you were it not for the softness in his eyes. You know his answer. It’s always the same. The swipe of his index finger across the sensitive skin of your slit, circling your clit once, twice, before pulling back and pushing it into his mouth with a loud moan, almost certainly for your benefit. He’s a performer by nature and by trade, and the level of confidence he exudes as he smirks down at you is comparable only to the confidence he has when he sings. Moving down to cage you to the bed, nose touching nose, lips near touching, his member rubs against the wetness gathering at your thighs making you gasp, feeling like you’re being touched too much and too little all at once. </p><p>“I’ve never tasted anything so sweet in my entire life.” He sounds so sincere. You know that words are his occupation, and that he’s had many lovers before you, but he speaks with such a sincerity that makes you feel like the only person to have ever existed in his eyes. It’s enough to make your throat tighten and eyes well with overly sentimental tears, so you quickly shut your eyes and press your lips against his, tongue tracing the seam of his mouth, until it opens and your tongue dips within. He tastes of sweet cherry wine, something that can only be described as Jaskier and some thing you can only assume is the taste of yourself. You should feel ashamed, a voice in the back of your mind says weakly, at such a wanton display, licking your own taste from the mouth of a lover who's taken to holding you with such a gentleness you'd swear you were made of glass, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Lustful acts behind closed doors is hardly the end of the world and Jaskier isn’t one to judge, especially if the appreciative noises he’s making into your mouth is anything to go by, and if description of what happens find itself in his next song then even still you won’t care, save for the blush it'll bring to your face and the wink that will inevitably come as he sings. It won’t be the first time. Adjusting your legs to better accommodate him between them, his member rubs against your slit, but he keeps his touch chaste, holding your face gently before breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against yours.  </p><p>“May I?” It’s obvious what he means, but still you tilt your head as if oblivious.  </p><p>“May you what?” The playful tone of voice brings from him a near exasperated sigh, coupled with the softest smile you can imagine. He doesn't need to ask, never does, especially when he's had you crying out for him for hours now, but he does and always does. It’s sweet that he wants to ensure that you always want it, but you love teasing him. </p><p>“Please may I make love to you, Dear Heart?” The candle flickers as he says that, and for a brief second, you're dipped into pitch blackness, before the light returns once more. Make love. It’s such a pretty term, so much sweeter than calling it fucking, makes you feel loved- even if he’s never said that he does. Cheeks tinged a deep red, you nod quickly.  </p><p>“Please do.” The earnest desire in your voice is hard to hide sober, so you don't even attempt it drunk, instead opting to dedicate yourself to more fruitful pursuits like wrapping a hand around his cock and rubbing up the length quickly. The gasp that slips from his lips is musical and makes you smile, but it slips as his hand rises to grab your wrist, stilling the movement and pinning it gently to the bed.  </p><p>“As much as I love you doing that, if you keep it up, I won't be able to last.” Your heart swells a little with pride, and your mouth turns up in a small smug smirk. You understand all at once why he smirks at your moans.  </p><p>“I don’t recall saying I want you to last.” Your voice is little more than a whisper, making his eyes narrow into cat-like slits.  </p><p>“I want to make you cum on my cock. And I don’t see a way of doing that if I don’t last.” He nips at your ear, then presses a kiss to the space behind it as he pushes into you. No matter how many times he beds you, it feels like the first... especially after multiple climaxes. He's thick. You moan loudly into his mouth as he pushes himself to the hilt inside of you, and the earlier stimulation makes him feel bigger still, every inch and vein feeling massive. It’s hard to articulate how good he makes you feel in this moment, filling you and brushing his nose against the curve of your jaw, so you moan out incoherently.  </p><p>He's leaned over you, with hair far beyond tousled and hanging over his face, pupils blown out so wide you can barely make out the thin blue ring around them, and lips made plump and pink from kissing. He's beautiful, almost painfully so, covered in a thin sheen of sweat which reflected the flickering candlelight. You don’t feel worthy of the attention he lavishes on you, but it's not something you would have ever vocalised, for fear of one of his long, verbose rants about how much he adores you, loves you most ardently.  </p><p>“Jaskier-" You moan softly into his mouth as he kisses you chastely, which causes the corners of his lips to turn up into a satisfied smile. He always smiles like that when you moan, proud like each noise is a medal or triumph. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you tell yourself you should be embarrassed by how vocal you’re being, but you also know you would make a million noises just to make him smile. You couldn’t have been silent if you tried anyway. </p><p>“Julian.” He replies, hips bucking back slightly only to push back into you. What? Julian? Your eyes widen then narrow in confusion, the combination of that and the pleasure of the thrust causes you to let out a moan, tinged with confusion. He chuckles once more, but less self-assured this time. He seems to have realised that saying a name that isn’t yours, while inside you, was not likely to go down well. “It’s my name. My... name.” He becomes shy for a second, leaning back onto his knees so that he’s no longer draped over you with his body, member pulled out until only the tip remained inside of you. You push yourself up onto your elbows, staring up at him, his face childish looking in a sort of guilt you've never seen before. “I was... I was hoping you could-"  </p><p>“Julian.” You cut him off, reaching out to brush your fingers across his chest and threading through the shag on his chest. Julian. Your mind replays the name over and over again, and it's wonderful. A real name. It suits him, but it’s not Jaskier. It's not the name you know him by. Julian is a real name for a real man who would have real responsibilities, not a beautiful foppish bard who follows adventures and travels around the continent without a second thought like your Dandelion. “Julian, Jaskier, Dear Heart, Dandelion, Buttercup... It’s all the same to me.” It isn't though. Maybe to him it is, but you’re struck by how... insecure he looks now. Jaskier is never insecure, occasionally cruel and more often than not jealous, but insecure? Not your Jaskier.  </p><p>Somewhere in your mind, back, far beyond the thought of sex and satisfaction that is taking you over, you think about those names that you call him. Dear Heart, Dandelion, Buttercup, Jaskier. All of them are the same wild, beautiful, charming man. This Julian, still beautiful and charming, is afraid; you don’t like that look on him. You like his stupid, over-excited grin, and so you lean up and peck his lips.  </p><p>“It's all the same to me, Julian.” You repeat with a soothing smile. “As long as you’re mine, I really don’t mind what I call you.” </p><p>Ocean-blue eyes light up with a bright grin, and with a drunken laugh he pins you down once more, face buried in the crook of your neck at the same time that his hips snapped against yours, which draws a loud moan of each other’s names in unison. </p><p>“Oh, Dear Heart.” Jaskier, Julian, whispers sweetly against your skin and you swear in that moment that had he asked you to pull down the moon and the stars, you would have immediately done it.  </p><p>“Julian.” You moan out, clinging onto his back as his thrusts continue at a near brutal pace.  </p><p>“My Dearest...” He moans, mouthing at your collar and throat, one hand holding your thigh to his hip and the other holding onto your hand like someone will steal you away from him at any moment. The changed position makes you feel fuller still, each and every thrust bringing stars to your vision until, with a shaking gasp, you feel yourself overwhelmed by the oh so familiar feeling of your own completion washing over you once more. Julian, no Jaskier, continues his frenzied pumping into you, talented fingers working at your sensitive pearl, just on the right side of painfully pleasant. Any thought you had had even a second beforehand melded into an incoherent mess of the same few words,  </p><p>“Good. Oh fuck, Jask. So fucking good.” Then, while your mind was overtaken by the lust and wine, you whine out a weak, “Julian.”  </p><p>At that he stills, with a painful sounding whimper, and you feel the sensation of warm release flooding into your cunt. Eyes snapping open, you catch the sight of him leaning over you once more. For a moment of silence, a reprieve from the moans, gasps and wet slap of skin on skin that had filled the air, he remains leaned over you, forehead pressed to your collarbone before dropping down and collapsing on top of you. Absentmindedly, you reach up to card your fingers through his damp hair. He has so much fucking hair, you consider lazily and smile.  </p><p>“You'll be the death of me, Dear Heart.” It’s muffled, and a little hard to make out, but you hear him clear as day; it makes you smile, the image of him dying mid shag. He peaks up at you from beneath those long eyelashes and repeats it, peppering kisses along the goose-pimpled flesh of your chest and the top of your breasts, making you giggle. It was a bad idea to laugh, as it encourages him in his journey of kisses, hands moving up to tickle you while using his body weight to hold you in place. </p><p>“Gods, Dandelion. Get off of me.” You cackle, trying to buck him off without much luck. “You weigh a tonne!”  </p><p>“Are you calling me fat, Darling?” He sounds incredulous and insulted, but the wide grin on his face proves that he’s anything but. Rising slowly, he rests over you on one elbow and cups your cheek, pulling you into a sweet but deep kiss while he delicately pulls himself from within you. The loss makes you whimper under your breath, eyes slipping shut once more, and Jaskier breaks the kiss momentarily to watch transfixed for a second as some of his seed drips from you. You blush under his gaze, as you always do when he looks at you in this way. Skilful fingers scoop up some of his own seed, mixed with your essence, and push it back inside you, the sensation drawing a loud moan from you once more. Mouths pressing together once more, the mattress dips beside you, and you pull back once more to smile, </p><p>“I cannot believe you just called me fat.”  </p><p>“I would never!”  </p><p>“I weigh a tonne? That’s what you said.” His tone is matter of fact and you lean in and press a playful kiss to the tip of his nose.  </p><p>“A tonne of muscle and talent?” You offer, and he smirks, grasping you by the hips and all but flinging you on your side.  </p><p>“Flattery will get you nowhere, my love. Now sleep.” He says with a sigh and swats playfully at your bottom, pulling the sheets around the two of you. He never makes demands of you, so his light comments like sleep carries far more weight than they should. The blanket, combined with him curling himself around you, head between your shoulders, makes it too warm for you to fall immediately asleep; but you find yourself drifting into the warm, incomprehensible space between sleep and awake.  </p><p>“Julian, eh?” Your voice is little more than a croak, yet it’s enough to make him huff out a short laugh with a squeeze of your hip.  </p><p>“Yes. Julian. Julian Alfred Pankratz. I. I thought you should know.”  His confidence has faltered once more and instinctively you place a hand atop of his and squeeze it. “...I realised earlier I hadn't told you.” </p><p>“Julian Alfred Pankratz.” You repeat, testing how the name feels in your mouth. “I like it.” He nods tiredly, and you curl up into a ball, rolling onto your side to let him take his usual sleeping position, forehead between your shoulders. “...but I like Jaskier more.”  </p><p>“Same here.” He mutters tiredly and presses a kiss to your spine. “But if anyone is to call me that, I'd rather it be you.” </p><p>“...thank you, Jaskier.”  </p><p>“For what, Dear Heart?” He asks and lifts his head, resting his jaw on your shoulder.  </p><p>“Telling me? Letting me know?” In this tired headspace you're finding it harder and harder to keep any thoughts out of your mouth. “I don’t know. I appreciate you telling me more about you. You’re just so... private. I worry I barely even know you sometimes.” Voice dipping into a near whisper, sleep begins to overtake you, eyes slipping shut.  </p><p>“I’ll tell you anything you want to know, My Muse.” He whispers, the last thing you hear before falling asleep. Once you're asleep, he smiles, pressing a kiss behind your ear before returning his head to your back, “Anything you want to know from my past. My future is already yours; you may as well have what I was as well as what I might be.” Your rhythmic breathing causes his eyes to droop once more. “...I love you.” Before that confession can give him reason for concern, sleep engulfs him, bringing him to dreams of your future together.</p>
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